


The person you'd take a bullet for is behind the trigger.

by lucifucker



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe-The Young Blood Chronicles, I Tried, Post Where Did the Party Go?, References to Drug Use, because ew drugs no stahp, but very mild, first fic, fix-it fic for wdtpg, h/c, i mean if thats your thing its your thing but, im so bad at tagging fuck, so i made some more, there's not enough trohley fic, um, very
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:24:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes before it gets better, the darkness gets bigger, the person that you’d take a bullet for is behind the trigger.</p>
<p>He kind of hates Patrick for writing that line in, now that he’s hiding in a fucking cabinet from him. At the time, it had seemed fucking sweet, but now not so much.</p>
<p>Basically a Joe's death fix-it because fuck that, and a bunch of angsty sad Trohley feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The person you'd take a bullet for is behind the trigger.

_The sun is shining in the window of the hotel room, drifting through the cracks in the curtains, and it illuminates Andy’s sleeping face, soft and slack against Joe’s chest. Joe smiles, just slightly, and reaches up, carding his fingers through the silky-smooth, so often gelled hair that has now fallen over Andy’s forehead. Andy’s face twists just a little, as though his nose itches, and he blinks awake, peering up at Joe, and a grin cracks the guitarist's face at how absolutely adorable he looks as he wakes up._

_“Good morning, starshine.” He murmurs, his voice grating from lack of use, and he’s graced with one of those small, perfect smiles._

_“Mornin’.” Andy mumbles, back, pressing his body closer against Joe’s, and burrowing deeper under the blankets. “S’it time to go?” Joe shakes his head._

_“Nah, we’ve got a few more hours, still.” Andy tilts his head, and presses a sloppy kiss to Joe’s ribs, nuzzling at his solar plexus with his nose. He’s like a puppy, Joe ponders. A giant, tattooed puppy with a mohawk._

_“C’mere.” He breathes, rolling Andy up onto his chest with the arm that’s curled around his waist, and reaching up with the other one to tug him down into a soft, wet kiss. Andy hums into his mouth, and his hands slide up Joe’s chest, tangling in his hair._

_“Love you.” He says sleepily into Joe’s mouth, and Joe smiles, brushing his lips over Andy’s cheek._

_“Love you, too.”_

 

-0-

 

Sometimes before it gets better, the darkness gets bigger, the person that you’d take a bullet for is behind the trigger.

 

He kind of hates Patrick for writing that line in, now that he’s hiding in a fucking cabinet from him. At the time, it had seemed fucking sweet, but now not so much.

 

He doesn’t know where Andy is, but he knows he must be safe, because Patrick’s in here, instead of wherever the other guys are, and that’s something, right? If he’s here, he’s focused on Joe, and that’s what’s important.

 

It’s not hard to tell it’s not really Patrick. Other than the growling and the crazy eyes, obviously. He moves...wrong. Like an animal. Like something’s stalking him.

 

Or, more likely, like he’s stalking something. Namely, Joe.

 

He barely registers the door getting wrenched open until he’s launching himself out, knocking Patrick over in his efforts to get away. Because, maybe, if he can run fast and far enough, Patrick will just follow him out of this crazy fucking place and leave Andy and Pete alone. Maybe if he can distract him long enough, the other guys can get away, and that’s what matters, right? He might never get to tell Andy he's sorry, tell him he loves him again, but at least he'll be safe.

 

Right?

 

It’s a good plan. A great plan, really, and Joe generally prides himself on his plans. But unfortunately, plans can easily go to shit when you’re trying to grapple with the fucked-up superhuman monster that used to be your best friend, and Patrick is, in fact, superhuman, stronger than he’s ever been before. Joe wins every arm wrestling contest, can run faster than Patrick even on a bad day (although in retrospect, he’d need Pete’s legs to run fast enough from whatever he is, now. Fucking soccer legs on stripper hips) but right now, Patrick breaks every hold he has, pushes down every bit of fight he gives, and hefts him up, throwing him down on the table in one smooth, entirely not-Patrick motion.

 

He vaguely registers that he’s struggling, trying to break free, but then there’s a cord around his neck, and it’s tight, and it’s unforgiving, and he can’t fucking move, let alone fight, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

 

The person that you’d take a bullet for is behind the trigger.

 

Well, if the rope around his neck is a metaphorical gun, then yeah, that’s pretty accurate.

 

Joe blacks out to the sound of Patrick snarling, and distant screaming.

  
  
  


-0-

_They're fighting again, and this tme it's bad. Worse than usual. They both scream, and shout, and Andy throws something, neither of them is sure what, at Joe's head, and it misses, sure, but it still stings._

_"No. No, fuck you, okay? Fuck you." He's hollering it, and his voice is so hoarse it hurts but he won't stop, can't stop, because it's too much this time. Weed is one thing. Acid's one thing. But finding track marks on Joe's arm, that's different. "You can't do this shit."  
_

_"Andy, it was just the one fucking time, will you stop being such a fucking bitch about it?"_

_It's one step too far, and they both realize it, but before anything can be said to fix it, before anything can be done, Andy's shaking his head, and backing up._

_"I wish I'd never fucking met you." Joe freezes, but Andy doesn't. "I'm done. I'm fucking done. Find someone else to deal with your bullshit." Andy storms out the door, slams it behind him and fights to keep the tears down  until he can get to his car._

_Joe stares at the door. He stares for a long fucking time, hours spent standing there, until Pete finds him, stock-still in the middle of the room._

 

 

_Two days later they still haven't spoken, and they each black out, only to wake up stoned, scared, and tied down around a table._

  
  


-0-

 

There are two things that Andy is capable of registering when he runs into the room.

 

One, Patrick’s eyes are definitely no longer bright yellow.

 

Two, Joe is on a table.

 

Why is Joe on a table?

 

He feels Pete’s hand on his arm, gripping tight like he’s afraid Andy’s going to fall over, and that makes no sense, why would he be falling over? Patrick looks fine, they’re all safe if Patrick’s fine, right?

 

But Pete’s hand is insistent, continuing to squeeze as he steps closer.

“Pete, _what_?” Andy hisses, turning toward the other guy with his eyebrows raised. Then he catches the look in Pete’s eye.

 

They’ve been beaten, tortured, chased down like animals. They ate Patrick’s...insides. But now, right now, Pete looks more terrified than Andy’s ever seen him, eyes blown wide and scared, and filled, fucking _filled_ with tears, and Andy doesn’t understand, can’t understand, why is Pete crying? They’re free, there’s nothing to cry about, what--

 

“I’m sorry.” It’s gasped, barely audible, emanating from Patrick like a broken note, and Andy’s head jerks up, eyes meeting Patrick’s as the other man falls back against the wall, head in his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry--” He repeats it like a mantra, and Andy just shakes his head, because none of this makes sense, why is Patrick sorry?  He turns toward Joe for guidance, giving him a quizzical look, and stops dead in his tracks.

 

Joe’s not moving.

 

Why isn’t Joe moving.

 

He takes a step forward, and another, and another until he’s standing less than a foot from the table, and Joe’s still not moving, and his eyes are blown wide and his mouth is open but he’s not moving.

 

Joe’s not moving, and someone’s screaming, sobbing, and the sound is filling the room, and it takes Andy longer than it should to realize that that noise is coming from him.

 

He barely registers falling forward, collapsing onto the table, and it’s not a conscious decision to pull the cord from around Joe’s neck, gently, like he can still hurt him. It’s like he’s dreaming, dreaming the worst nightmare that he could possibly imagine, as he pulls Joe’s body up into his arms, and buries his face in his hair, begging him to _come back, please, come back, it’s not funny anymore, it’s not funny, Joe, stop._

He's gone. Joe's gone, fucking gone, and the last thing he fucking said to him was "I wish I'd never met you" and he can't breathe, can't bring himself to inhale because Joe's  _dead._

 

And he can hear someone else shouting, and that’s definitely not him, that’s Patrick, slamming his fists against the wall, and roaring at it, and he faintly hears Pete’s soft, frantic murmuring, can’t look over, but already knows what he’d see, Pete on the floor in front of Patrick, holding him, cradling him, while Patrick sobs, and sobs, just like Andy is, but less so. Because Patrick and Pete, they’ve lost a friend, but Andy’s lost everything.

 

He feels hands on  him, tugging him back, in some way understands that it’s Pete pulling him off the table and back toward the wall, and he fights, fights with everything he has because they can’t take this away from him, because if they’re leaving it means it’s real, and this _cannot_ be real.

 

But Pete is stronger, much stronger, than he is, and as Andy opens his eyes he realizes he was wrong. Patrick’s not curled up on the floor. Patrick’s trying to pry open some kind of case, and some back-end alleyway of Andy’s brain recognizes it as an AED. His shoulders go slack, and he stops trying to break free of Pete’s grip, and in response Pete rushes around the table, and starts helping Patrick with the pads, ripping Joe’s shirt down the middle, and plastering the plastic down onto his skin. Andy steps back, stands against the wall with his hands curled into fists while Pete shouts at Patrick to hit the button, just hit the fucking button.

Patrick flails a little bit, and does, slamming his good hand down on the case, and there’s a loud beep as Joe’s entire body jerks. Pete jumps back, and Andy sinks to the floor, curling in on himself just slightly as a piercing scream erupts from Joe’s mouth, and he sits up, roaring at the top of his lungs in pain and anguish and something resembling fear. Patrick and Pete both crowd back against the opposite wall, and cling to each other in the most disney-prince way possible as Joe rips the pads off his chest, his eyes darting wildly around the room.

 

Andy can’t even process this, let alone do anything to help, can only watch, helplessly, as Joe looks left and sees Patrick, immediately leaping off the table and onto the floor, scrambling back toward the wall as if he’s afraid Patrick’s going to kill him.

 

Which, to be fair, he was all of two minutes ago, but Andy won’t, can’t think about that. All he can think about is the fact that Joe is less than a foot away from him, and scrambling back, and all he can even begin to do with himself is shift forward, and press himself against Joe’s back, staying perfectly still when the younger man whirls around, his eyes going impossibly wider when the recognition hits and he realizes that it’s not some fucked up crazy nurse or a maniac in a skin-tight leather jacket, it’s Andy. Just Andy.

 

It takes all of about five seconds before Joe is in Andy’s arms, crushing Andy to his chest while Andy wraps his entire body around Joe’s, pressing his face into the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply the smell of blood and sweat and leather that's so much better than no smell at all. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Joe pulls him back to wipe the tears away from his cheeks with gritty hands, and he surges up, locking their lips together in spite of how little breathing he’s already doing.

 

Joe tastes like dirt and metal and something hot and electric (feasibly the AED but Andy’s not really in the mood to figure it out) and it’s hard and fast and perfect, and he can’t breathe, can’t even think about breathing, because Joe’s here, he’s alive, and he’s holding him, and why the fuck would he want to take the time to breathe.

"I'm sorry." He rasps, his voice coming out in a strangled gasp against Joe's lips, intermingled with choking sobs. "I love you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I love you--" He's silenced by Joe's mouth closing over his again, his entire body going slack as the same things are murmured back, into his cheek and his forehead as Joe presses his nose into his hair.

There’s the sound of the door slamming, but he ignores it, just ducks his head and lets Joe cradle him in his stupidly lanky arms, lets out a slow, soft breath of air as long fingers come up to card through his hair.

 

The whole fucking world could end right now, and he wouldn’t care.

  
  
  
  


~end?~

**Author's Note:**

> Kinda rough around the edges, for sure, but better than nothing I guess? Reviews are love, be nice.


End file.
